


unmasking, undone

by puckishly



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Mostly Fluff, i had to get this out, with some crying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:29:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26725192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puckishly/pseuds/puckishly
Summary: She had asked her angel to show himself, she realizes with a start. And he had.Were angelssupposedto be so tangible, so real?
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 3
Kudos: 30





	unmasking, undone

**Author's Note:**

> the au in which they use their words. a closer look at what could have happened the night erik first spirits christine away to his world of darkness. mash-up of leroux and alw. one-shot. complete. beta'd by my wonderful friend.

Candlelight washes over her in its warm splendor. She wakes to music, and takes to her waking slowly; the curl of fingers against crushed velvet, pout of mouth as she begins to stir in her sleep. Her brow furrows just so. The gentle melody carries to where Christine had been laid to rest, and she knows not how long she had been there. No time seemed to pass within these darkened alcoves. 

_Was she in hell?_

The notion spreads gooseflesh up the expanse of her arms and legs. Reflexively, she reaches for her silver cross, chain pooled at her throat. Eyes, a fathomless blue, widen as she makes to sit up in her cotton nightdress. 

She had asked her angel to show himself, she realizes with a start. And he had. 

Were angels _supposed_ to be so tangible, so real?

Her bare feet hit the cold floor blearily, and with great reluctance, she drug herself from the luxurious mattress. The music only continued, echoing throughout the halls. Christine knew, that should she follow it, she would find what she sought.

So she does.

She takes the plush quilt from the bed to beat back to chill, shrugging safely into its confines as she begins her journey. Not once do the notes falter; instead, they beckon, calling her forth from her dreams. 

She remembers... _She remembers..._

A lake. Curtains of mist. A man.

He was no angel, was he?

When she entreats upon him, after wandering corridor after corridor, she finds him musing. Back turned to her, plucking keys between dexterous fingers; he scratches his thoughts into a spare bit of parchment with a quill. Christine approaches, as silently as she can muster so as to not disturb him. The unmasked portion of his face shifts in expression when he thinks. Crumples. Relaxes. How very befitting of an artist.

She is no longer sated by merely watching. Christine allows herself to intrude. “ _Ange_?” she asks, soft in her songbird throat. The haunting notes immediately cease. He turns to face her.

“You are awake,” He observes; his hands are not at rest even when they fall to his side. There they pluck at imaginary strings, fine-tuning an instrument in his haste that she cannot see. Christine’s gaze settles at his eyes. They immediately avert to the floor.

“I am,” she confirms. The velvet duvet slips down her shoulders. Christine opens her mouth to speak, then thinks better of it. The man continues, “You must be hungry.” Said all at once, feverish; as if he couldn’t believe her presence before him.

“No, no,” Christine says, golden curls bouncing when she shakes her pretty head. “I am fine. I only...” She searches, uselessly. Christine is stupefied into silence by the absurdity of the situation. And yet...

This voice, this angel, this man... He had been there for her. _Always._

Hadn’t she once wished to see him? To _understand_ him?

“Who _are_ you?” It leaves her with little thought, and he visibly shrinks under her scrutiny. 

“Very few have asked me that,” He says quietly, busying himself by putting away his compositions. Christine’s hand, perhaps of its own accord, reaches for him. Her delicate fingers curl about his shoulder, urging him to stand and be nearer. His eyes widen.

“You are not an angel.” She says, finally, and he cannot bring himself to disagree. She continues, “So who are you, then?” Christine’s gaze is steady. A confidence she did not know she possessed makes its appearance. Even still, the man is quiet. His features wax and wane.

“If you won’t tell me, I shall have to find out for myself.” Her hand lifts, daringly close to the mask hiding him from her. He recoils, his grasp tight and unforgiving upon her wrist. His hold bites, _burns._

“Do not,” He says, quiet. She jerks herself free.

“Then who are you?” Christine asks again, insistent. The man sighs in defeat.

“I am Erik.” 

Christine is quiet, mouth pressed together tightly in thought. Her brow furrows. Beneath her watchful eye, she notices the wet gleam of tears upon his face.

“I am no angel, I am no ghost… I am only Erik!” His words growing with fervor, until he is grasping at her with abandon; from the bench and on his knees, masked face buried within the soft fabric of her nightdress.

He openly weeps, to which she stares in bewilderment. The man, Erik, continues.

“I have lied to you, my Christine!” A sob in his throat. Her hands reach for him, comforting him; gently carding through the strands atop his head, shushing him so that his cries may subside.

 _Erik,_ she thinks, as all of his words dissolve into incoherency. _Erik._

So he was the one who had listened to her for all this time. He was the one who knew her sorrows, her grievances; he had taught her everything she knew.

“Erik,” Christine says with utter care, and he raises his head. His face is patchy and red emerging from the folds of her nightdress. She gently cups his exposed cheek. “It is lovely to finally meet you.”

His breath catches in his throat. “Are you not horrified?” 

She shakes her head once more, “No.” After some consideration, and her thumb wiping away his tears, she speaks again. “Surprised, perhaps. But I have known you for so _long,_ Erik.”

His hold around her knees tightens, and he looks guilty, like a scolded child might. 

“Are you not angry?”

Christine stills, but does not shirk him. “I should very much like to have a word with you tomorrow.” His head bows. “For now, I will settle for getting to know my teacher better.” 

She bends at the waist, her mouth at his forehead. The kiss is freely given so that she may finally feel him.

Her angel was corporeal.

**Author's Note:**

> so... i'm not dead!! or, at least, not as dead as erik. had to get this out of my mind, whoops! also, i have a tumblr now (@phantomsbian), so y'all can send me critiques, suggestions, and plots there!! 
> 
> since spooky season is upon us, i plan on updating my corpse bride au fic soon.
> 
> remember kudos and comments feed the author, and don't be a stranger! xoxo


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